


Qua Arete

by lye_tea



Category: Rome
Genre: F/F, F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lye_tea/pseuds/lye_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone wants to fuck Octavia. Or as Atia puts it: beauty and virtue are the worst curses for a woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i. doublespeak

**i. doublespeak**

A generation of men is like a generation of leaves; the wind  
scatters some leaves upon the ground, while others the  
burgeoning wood brings forth - and the season of spring comes  
on. So of men one generation springs forth and another ceases.

"You speak beautifully. You turn Homer's ranting into nectar."

Maecenas smiles. He does indeed.

"Thank you, madam. But the beauty of poetry is nothing next to the beauty of a woman. A real woman" (he cups her cheek) "real flesh,  _real_ blood" (he kisses her hands) "You can strip her raw, you can taste her sweat" (licks her jaw) "and still— _still_ —you will never have unraveled her."

Octavia nods, stifling a yawn. The hour is late. The hour—

"You grow weary of me?" he mocks, feigning perfect distress.

She blushes. So timid and docile. It's unnerving. She reminds him of a charmingly well-cooked dove. He wonders how she'd look with the innards out: heart and kidneys, oh liver oh lungs! (he especially wants those).

"Oh no, not at all," she begins to protest. "I am tired, that's all. It's been a long day. Have you seen my brother, I should say goodbye."

"No, no, don't go. Let's play a game, dear Octavia."

"A game?" she asks in surprise, as if he'd turned crazy.

Maecenas' smile widens. Twin little dimples and a curling tongue. He hides his silver well (his perversity better). With such a lovely, lovely mercurial face, he can enchant stone alive. Octavia will be hopeless.

Leaning closer (her hair smells of hyacinths) Maecenas whispers softly into her ear, "Yes, a game. Let's play how long it'll take for me to make you scream."

He laughs as Octavia shoves past him. She's outraged, pissed, hellish pomp and posh. He'll have her polished and giddy (satiated and stuffed) soon enough. With his magnificent tongue, he'll drive her deep into the ground and bury her there.

\--

Antony is a fool for leaving her. She is, after all, the exemplar of a Roman woman. Maecenas recites this to her every chance he can procure. In pained voices and with dulcet, saccharine gestures, he strings the lyre. He plucks tunes and sings arias. He pays her compliments and coins (small gifts, treasures from the heart). He brings her flowers and kittens and puppies and bunnies. He—

She ignores him. Spiteful bitch.

Gods, he hates her. He strikes at her with the malice of a coiled asp. Still, she does not relent. And he is exhausted from the chase. Fascinating.

He's never encountered a woman (or boy) he couldn't have. Usually, persuasion sufficed to cripple their knees. Sometimes, a dash of fear was the key. But he always won them over in the end.

\--

"I know you fucked Octavian. He's your brother. Are you not ashamed?"

She scoffs. "You fucked  _your_  brother. And you fucked your mother.  _And_ —if I recall correctly—you fucked Octavian as well. My indiscretion appears tiny in comparison."

"The magnitude of sin differs from men to women. By the way, you ever fornicated with a dog? I've seen women, Egyptian priestesses of Anubis, do so. I've heard it's quite pleasurable. The penetration is supposed to be…exceptional."

Octavia turns away, abandoning her plate of food in revulsion. She rises to leave. He grips tightly onto her glass-wrist and pulls her on top of him. The plate flings high and clatters to the floor. Octavia watches the clash between grape and marble.

Deftly, he bypasses the infinite ripples of her dress and finds her—ah, there.

He frowns. Her cunt is dry and violently tight.

"You're disgusting. I hope you know that," she spits angrily.

He bares her breasts with an expert flourish. Long, slender, elegant fingers dancing on alabaster. He even removes his ring.

Octavia stares at him, challenging. He takes the bait (he never was one to surrender). In three sharp breaths, he takes her nipple into his mouth, bites down hard.

He enters her. She lets out an (accidental) abrupt cry of misery.

Maecenas laughs. "Told you I'll have you screaming."

\--

Octavian is a nasty little shit if there ever were one.

Maecenas loathes pandering to the idiot (no, not true, Octavian's damnably brilliant). Boiling in anger, rancor and (in a manner of speaking) indignation.

Maecenas is a man easily annoyed by the unsophisticated, the uncultured and the brutish. Poetry is a fine art to be wooed. It takes years, centuries, to nourish it correctly. And an artistic genius (such is his plight) has it particularly difficult. Octavian simply does not understand—unappreciative ass. He has no finesse, no talent for beauty. Vulgarity trails him, chaffing his ribs and determined to castrate.

But the man is Princeps (fancy title for a tiny prig) and all must do as Princeps dictates. And so, Maecenas smiles cordially and accepts Octavian's toasts and honors, horridly ineloquent they are. Worthwhile friends are so tricky to seduce nowadays.

\--

She thinks she is clever, attempting to disguise her pining as contempt. Pathetic. Octavia thinks he does not see through her ruse, the lowered lashes and muted signs. She still has feelings for Agrippa. Lingering they may be, but nonetheless a spike screwed inextricably into Maecenas' spine.

It is amusing, almost cute. Agrippa is now no better than a bouncing ball of soggy sinew and pulpy fat. He resembles a hen. A nervous, bumbling one. The kind that's good with light dressing and stuffed with apples.

"Having fun?" Maecenas asks.

Octavia jumps and flies out of Agrippa's slippery embrace. The air swallows a draft of guilt.

He hums and leaves the two lovers be. Fucking against an atrial column, how rude. How absolutely selfish to put on a lavish drama and then deny him admittance.

\--

One day, he decides to dabble in sculpture. While his flair for stone lacks a certain Praxitelean eroticism, Maecenas' eye for muses more than compensates.

"Stand still, my love, or I shall crucify you to the spot."

He chips at the marble. Didn't look right. Another assault. Again.

"I  _said_ be still, Octavia. I swear, if you weren't so exquisite, I'd flay you alive and toss your burning skin to the dogs. After I sampled a bite, of course."

"It'd take heaven to move me," she snapped through clenched teeth.

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, my dear. In any case, you're quite wrong. There is no heaven. As for hell, Pluto can suck my cock. This, sweetheart, this is all there is. This shithole we have for paradise and damnation."

She raises a brow. "You're quite the pessimist, aren't you?"

"No, I'm a realist. Quit fidgeting, Octavia. I understand the world. Unlike the grandiose fools, I know my limitations. Take your darling brother, for instance, he has some absurd notion of a thousand-year reign of peace."

"You don't believe it can happen?"

Maecenas carves out her lips. Dainty lunettes. He thins out the line (no need to speak). There, he'll have her immortalized before the week is done.

"Believe what, love?"

Irritated, Octavia rolls her eyes. "Do you believe my brother will fail?"

"Oh that. Of course he will. I'm astounded he's even endeavoring such a feat. He is a man. He will do well to remember that. He only has to look at his 'divine father.' We are wretched worms struggling to climb an eternal mountain. But some of us desire to be worm-king."

"He's plotting something again. He always is. You should be cautious. It could be you he kills next."

Maecenas pauses, glancing up. He observes her carefully for any hints of guile. Sensing none, he continues, "Actually, it's  _you_ he has in mind. He wants to marry you off. And seeing as how you've been widowed—yet again—it's only a matter of time."

"Marry? Again? I'd rather die first. Men are good for nothing but foisting one brat after another onto your shoulders."

"You're quite right. Men are very stupid. They should all just perish. Step wisely, Octavia. You've been ill-used by your most illustrious and eminent brother. What a pity, how you must hate him. And yet, he loves you dearly. He still lusts for you."

"I don't. Hate him, that is. He's my brother."

"Yes, and a calculating bastard. But enough of Caesar. Would you like to come with me tonight?"

She shoots him a wary look. "Come where?"

"A debauchery. I know how fond you are of orgies."

Octavia does not answer. Maecenas has the cunning intuition of an undying epidemic. He knows just where to strike to maximize fatality. For him, infliction is a game. And the sickness is the brutal trophy of victory.

"I shall see you at eight. Wear something…transparent. In fact, don't wear anything at all. Cheers."

 


	2. ii. ugly

**ii. ugly**

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,  
As for all the rumors of stern old men,  
Let us value them at only a penny.

**[Catullus 5]**

Livia is not beautiful. Dangerous, treacherous,  _hideous_. She is a snake scorched of its scales. An unwinged Pegasus with a bloody mane. And yet— _somehow_ —Octavia finds her awfully attractive. And so, she steps closer (pursues).

"Filthy."

Livia raises her brow. "What did you say?"

"The floor is filthy. Your slaves are slacking."

Shrugging, Livia smiles. "So they are. I will have them whipped in the morning."

"Nice party."

Livia shrugs, tossing her undrunk wine into the fountain. "A bit boring for my taste. Yours too, frankly. How's Maecenas?"

"What?"

"Don't lie"—Livia leans in, close, tip-tip—"I know."

"You know."

"That you two are fucking."

Octavia shudders as prickly spears of laughter stab into her spine.

\--

Tossing her wild hair back, Livia runs sharp fingers down her sister's neck. "Beautiful," she purrs (nails digging in). "Tonight, you are the most beautiful woman in Rome."

Dazed, Octavia feels her limbs drifting—pulled apart. She tastes Livia's lips on hers, tongue scarlet and acidic. She moans despite herself (senses drowned, lost, buried dark and deep).

"You are  _much_  better than your brother," Livia laughs. A hoarse little chuckle that reverberates and tickles the base of Octavia's throat.

\--

Trembling, her slave offers her a plate of figs. They have just arrived from a groove south of Athens. Livia slips a slice under her slithery tongue. She chews for a second and then smacks the slave hard across the face.

The figs are raw.

\--

At Maecenas' dinner party, Livia prudently keeps an eye on her husband. Octavian is infamous for his roaming eyes and wandering cock. And she normally wouldn't even bother (they have an unwritten covenant) except this is different. Strange. Odd. It's only natural that she's captivated.

"Something caught your fancy?" Maecenas whispers.

She smirks and accepts the goblet of wine from him. "Perhaps. Doesn't dear Octavia look gorgeous tonight?"

"As she is every night."

Drinking the last of her wine, Livia moves toward her new sister. She is lithe and stealthy like a Nile leopard. As she walks, the gold bracelets jingle around her wrists—in perfect tune with her heartbeats.

\--

When they fuck, Octavian is not kind, is not careful. He drives into her brutally, lifting her completely off the bed. Sometimes, he leaves marks down her arms and back, and she pierces his neck with sharp, little nails.

They do not cease until the other is whimpering in pain, bloody and marked (tainted). As he slams into her again, she is considerate enough to remember who is winning.

Livia leads by a margin because she knows it's not really her he's thinking of, and neither is he the one on her mind, his name trapped between her furtive moans.

One day, when she is feeling particularly heartless (bled dry) she will let slip Octavia. And delight in the surprise creeping over his face, marring him ugly.

And her uglier.

After all, it's entirely his fault for inviting another into their marriage bed. It'd be remiss of her to let him forget their vows. She is nothing but a dutiful, obedient wife.

Tomorrow, she thinks, she'll pay a visit to Attia.

 


End file.
